"She’s protecting us, no? Looking out for obstacles upriver, making sure the way is safe."

"I suppose," said Dybo. "Still, why does She never come and look directly down on Land? There are dangers here, too."

"Well, perhaps She feels that the people here are well looked after by the Empress. It is, after all, through God’s divine will that your mother rules."

Dybo looked out at the water. "Yes, indeed," he said at last.

"And one day, you will rule."

Again, Dybo stared out toward the horizon, the steady wind blowing in his face. He said a word, or at least Afsan thought he did, but the wind stole it away before it reached Afsan’s earholes.

"Does it scare you, Dybo? The responsibility?"

Dybo’s gaze came back to look at Afsan. The chubby prince was strangely subdued. "Wouldn’t you be scared?"

Afsan realized that he was upsetting his friend, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He bowed slightly in concession. "Sorry. But, anyway, your mother is only thirty kilodays old or so. I’m sure she’ll rule for a long time yet to come."

Dybo was silent for a time. "I hope so," he said at last.

Dybo, as crown prince, was ushered aboard the Dasheter first, amid a clacking together of honor stones by the ship’s crew. Afsan had to queue with the rest of the passengers, but it wasn’t long before his turn to board came.

A wooden gangway led from the dock up to the foredeck of the Dasheter. Afsan, his sack of belongings slung over his shoulder, was about to step upon it when he heard his name called by a deep voice. He turned and, much to his surprise, saw Saleed shambling toward him.

"Master?" said Afsan, stepping away from the gangway.

Saleed got within two paces of Afsan, closer than one would normally approach another in a public place. He reached into a pouch at the hip of his blue and green sash and withdrew a small object wrapped in soft hide. "Afsan, I…" Saleed looked uncomfortable. Afsan had never seen the astrologer thus. Irritated, yes. Angry, often. But uncomfortable? Ill at ease? Never.

"Afsan," Saleed said again. "I have a, a present for you." He opened up the knot of hide. Within lay a six-sided crystal, deep red, about the length of Afsan’s longest finger. It seemed to glow from within.

Afsan was so surprised, he did nothing at first. Then, finally, he reached out to take it. He held it in front of his face, and turned toward the sun. The crystal blazed.

"It’s beautiful," Afsan said. "What is it?"

"It is a traveler’s crystal, boy. It is said to bring luck. I — I took this one on my own first pilgrimage."

Afsan, tail swishing in wonderment, said, "Thank you."

"Be safe," said Saleed, and with that, the old astrologer turned tail and walked away.

Afsan watched his master’s back awhile, then walked toward the wooden gangway. He stepped on it, feeling the planks moving slightly as the Dasheter rose and fell on the waves, and walked up onto the deck of the ship.

The Dasheter! Afsan exhaled noisily. A more famous ship one could not imagine. Keenir’s exploits were the stuff of legend, and his ship was well-known even far inland.

Afsan leaned back on his tail for balance, unused to the slow heaving of the deck. A ship’s mate, wearing a red leather cap, much like the one Keenir had been wearing that day in Saleed’s office, gestured to Afsan. "Come along, eggling. Can’t stand there all day."

Afsan looked over his shoulder and realized that someone else was on the wooden gangway, standing patiently halfway across, not wanting to invade Afsan’s personal space. Afsan nodded to the fellow behind him. "Sorry!" He quickly moved farther onto the deck.

The mate moved closer to Afsan. "Your name, young one?"

"Afsan, late of Pack Carno, now of Capital City."

"Ah, Saleed’s apprentice. Your cabin is on the topmost of the aft decks on the port side. You can’t miss it; it has a relief of the Five Hunters carved into its door."

Afsan bowed concession. "Thank you."

"Best stow your gear, boy. We sail soon. You’ll find on the back of your door a list of ship’s chores you are expected to perform. There’s also a prayer schedule; services will get more frequent as we approach the Face of God, of course."

"Thank you," Afsan said again, and headed off to find the door carved with the Five Hunters.

Walking the deck was disquieting. Like all Quintaglios, Afsan had lived through several landquakes. Once, indeed, he had seen a large building topple only paces away from him. The undulating of the deck reminded him of the angry shifting of the land. He had to make a mental effort to tell himself not to seek open ground.

Afsan crossed the connecting piece between the fore and aft hulls of the boat, and found a ramp leading to the decks below. Down here, it was dark and musty. The walls, floors, and ceilings groaned constantly, almost as if alive. He had no trouble finding his cabin. The carving of the Five Hunters was exquisite. Afsan could picture the artisan laboring for days over the planks that made up the door, using fingerclaws as fine tools to chisel out chips of wood.

Each of the Five was rendered in distinctive detail: Lubal in the running posture, back horizontal, tail flying; Belbar in mid-leap, hand and foot claws extended; Hoog baring her fangs; Katoon tipped over so that her tail stood up like a tree trunk as she picked over a carcass; and Mekt, wearing a priestly robe, head held way back, throat expanding in a swallow, the last handspan or so of a tiny, thin tail still protruding from her mouth. Afsan was puzzled. It looked like an awfully small meal for such a great hunter.

And then there were the strange hand gestures, visible in the renditions of Lubal and Katoon: fingers two and three with claws extended, four and five spread out, the thumb placed against the palm.

Afsan had seen that odd configuration somewhere else, but where? The Tapestries of the Prophet. The aug-ta-rot beings. The demons.

Odd, thought Afsan, that a ship that often retraced the journey of the prophet would sport carvings from the cult of the hunters, a cult Larsk himself had diminished from being the major religion of the people to just a series of rites adhered to mostly by those, like Jal-Tetex, who hunted regularly. Still, the Dasheter was not exclusively a pilgrimage ship.

The cabin behind the carved door was small, with a workbench, a single lamp, a trough for storage, a bucket full of water, and a small window, currently covered by a leather curtain. There was plenty of room for sleeping on the floor.

Afsan unpacked his sack, filling the trough with most of its contents. On the desk, he placed his sky charts, his prayer books, and some other books he’d borrowed from Saleed for pleasure reading. In the center of it all, he placed Saleed’s traveler’s crystal.

On the back of the door was the promised schedule of chores. Nothing too complicated: galley duties, cleaning the decks, and so on. He walked across the cabin, pulled back the curtain over the porthole, and stared out at the busy docks.

Suddenly his door creaked open. Afsan felt a twitching at the tips of his fingers, but checked the reflex immediately. Only a member of The Family would enter a room without warning. Turning around, he said, "Ho, Dybo."

"Ho, yourself, you muddied tail of a shovelmouth." The prince placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. "Not bad."

"Yours is bigger, no doubt."

Dybo clicked his teeth. "No doubt."

"When do we sail?"

"Any moment," said Dybo. "That’s why I came to get you. Come on, let’s go up on deck." Without waiting for Afsan’s reply, Dybo headed out the doorway. Sometimes, Afsan reflected, he really does act like a prince. Afsan followed. Although Dybo was rotund, he was still much less bulky than an old Quintaglio, so the timbers of the deck made no special groaning under his weight.